


Pet Therapy

by wangler



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Fluff, Friendship, Jealousy, M/M, Pack Dynamics, Pre-Slash, Season 3 Speculation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-24
Updated: 2012-08-24
Packaged: 2017-11-12 19:26:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,109
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/494816
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wangler/pseuds/wangler
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Give me a break,” Stiles says, scrambling back against the Jeep’s windshield. “There are no actual wolves in California!”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pet Therapy

**Author's Note:**

> This is an expansion of my Tumblr rambling about wanting Stiles and Derek to quietly(?) bond as boy and wolf.

Jealousy feels like wearing dirty laundry. It’s workable, but you can smell it on your skin, and it hangs all wrong.  
  
Stiles tries to concentrate on his math homework while Scott and Isaac play Halo 3. They snort and snicker at each other, and hurl insults back and forth, and it’s a total non-issue, except for the way every outburst rakes across Stiles’ awareness like claws on a chalkboard. Big, stupid werewolf claws on a chalkboard covered with aborted attempts to navigate the quadratic equation.  
  
“Not the fucking needler,” Isaac says, laughing. Pink lasers cascade across the screen.  
  
“You’re never going to get your grades up if you don’t do your freaking homework,” Stiles says, snapping it out wearily, with none of the patience he’s always afforded Scott. Scott sucks at math, but he’s really good at being a friend. He’s always been really good at being Stiles’ best friend. He never asks questions. He’s just there.  
  
Except for lately. He’s still there, but he’s other places too. He’s off meeting with Peter and Derek Hale to talk about alliances because it’s like they’re on Survivor, except getting voted off the island apparently means getting murderated by an alpha from a pack of alphas. Which would be unbelievably ridiculous if it wasn’t real, if Boyd and Erica weren’t chained in the tunnels under the Hale house, infected with some other alpha’s desires.  
  
So yeah. Scott’s busy for legit reasons. And Isaac’s an orphan, so it’s awesome that Mrs. McCall has taken him in, and that he seems really happy lately, and that he’s working at Doctor Deaton’s too. Isaac and Scott are together basically all the time. Bonding. Being werewolves. These are all good things.  
  
But Stiles feels like shit. He feel like he’s wearing a sweaty tee shirt that marinated on his bathroom floor for two days. It clings to his skin and doesn’t let him breathe, and he hates that he can’t just be happy for his friend, that he has to feel so fucking betrayed.  
  
Scott has the game paused. “Okay,” he says, quiet and confused and friendly and _Scott_. “I can work on it now.”  
  
The homework takes another hour and a half. Isaac makes nachos in the microwave and hangs around crunching them and getting some of the equations done before Stiles does.  
  
“Dude, you’re good at this,” Scott says. “Cool.”  
  
“Okay, well.” Stiles closes his textbook. “You guys got this. I’m gonna get home. Dad’s bringing a pizza.”  
  
It isn’t true, and Stiles has a feeling Scott knows that. It’s a Wednesday and Wednesday is late night traffic shift time, because the police officers who aren’t dead have been covering extra shifts for all of the ones who are. Stiles hasn’t had dinner with his dad in a month and a half.  
  
Scott gives him another quiet, concerned look. That’s worse than anything else. Stiles doesn't deserve Scott’s concern. He’s being a jealous dick and he knows it. He just doesn’t know how to stop feeling so bad.  
  
“I’ll see you at school,” Scott says. They bump fists and Stiles grins and says, “Yeah, man,” and waves to Isaac.  
  
He doesn’t go home.  
  
***  
  
Peter fills a room like he’s a man three times his size. Maybe that’s why his alpha form was so atrocious—a mashup of ugly werewolves from movies they projected on the porch on Halloween, when kids from town came trick or treating at the Hale house because everyone knew the grounds were haunted. And that Derek’s mom made the best caramel apples in Beacon Hills.  
  
Peter steals all the air out of a room, and Derek feels stifled and exhausted. He’s sick of having to explain himself, of having to listen to Peter’s twisted stand-up comedian take on everything. Peter isn’t like—he’s not really funny. His smile is brittle and he’s no longer the crazy uncle who let Derek and Laura skip school to learn to drive when they were in sixth and seventh grade. He’s a funhouse-mirror copy, and Derek hates him on the best days.  
  
Most days, he just hates himself. It’s consistent, if anything.  
  
“Give them a little love,” Peter says, watching Jackson practice climbing a tree. Jackson doesn’t need the practice. He’s better at climbing than the others are, as if his body’s retained the kanima’s muscle memory. Lydia Martin sits on a picnic blanket near the trunk, timing him. She’s... a complication. But Jackson is calmer and more obedient in her presence.  
  
“If love was the key to breaking the alpha’s hold on Boyd and Erica, they’d be free,” Derek says, keeping his eye on Jackson so he doesn’t have to look at the patronizing smirk on his uncle’s face. They can all feel the mate-bond between Boyd and Erica, despite the poisoned magnetism of _another_. “You’re going to have to dig another theory off your hard drive.”  
  
“Not Boyd and Erica.” Peter points. “Those two. They’ll never follow you if you don’t connect. Scott and Isaac too, for that matter.”  
  
“We’re connected,” Derek says irritably. He feels Isaac every day, like a wound that won’t close up. Isaac is his beta, but runs with Scott’s pack, and it’s yet another mark on Derek’s record.  
  
Derek feels Jackson all the time too, and remembers the texture of Jackson’s open gut against his fingertips. They’re connected.  
  
“I’m going to run the border,” he says. “Don’t let Lydia inside. If she wants to fuck Jackson, they can fuck in his car.”  
  
“That’s not a very big car.”  
  
“If Erica smells Lydia again, she’s going to break out again,” Derek says, “and we’re going to spend six hours chasing her down, again.”  
  
Derek looks at Peter because he has to. He can’t afford to look away for too long.  
  
Peter smiles.  
  
***  
  
For being an only child, Stiles hasn’t spent much time home alone. His mom did medical billing in the mornings and was always there after school, and after that, Scott would come home with Stiles or Stiles would go home with Scott. And when Stiles’ dad worked weekends, Stiles would ride along with him, playing his DS in the back seat of the squad car and doing his homework at the reception desk at the station.  
  
He doesn’t like it when his house is empty.  
  
But he doesn’t mind the empty woods at the edge of the Beacon Hills Preserve. The creepiness factor alone is enough to chase away boredom, bitterness and even the lingering reek of all of his Scott McCall related angst.  
  
It’s stupid to be here. Reckless. Bad. He doesn’t even know what he’s waiting for, but he waits, sitting on the hood of his Jeep and drumming his fingers against his thighs.  
  
***  
  
They say every werewolf has three potential forms. Few werewolves reach the third, the alpha form, and no alpha is the same. Laura was a wolf. A keen-eyed she-wolf with a swift gait and a chocolate brown coat. She had a howl like music.  
  
Derek has known the wolf to be his own true form for months now, but he resists it. When he turns, he doesn’t know his own body. He doesn’t have Laura’s grace or her control. It’s nothing like the surge of strength he’s always felt when he transforms. It’s a total change. He becomes instinct. He becomes unreasonable. He drools.  
  
But he feels close to her when his paws are in the dirt, so on these nights, when he runs along the border of his pack’s territory, scenting the air for pain and strangers and _another_ , he becomes her brother the wolf.  
  
Laura’s in his blood. He runs and runs.  
  
He catches a familiar, appealing scent and whips around as fast as the wind that carries it.  
  
He runs.  
  
***  
  
“Give me a break,” Stiles says, scrambling back against the Jeep’s windshield. “There are no actual wolves in California!”  
  
The wolf is massive. Like a German Shepherd on steroids. It’s barking and dashing around in crazed circles and oh, okay, it’s a boy wolf. It’s—he’s the color of wet asphalt and his eyes are pale green like—  
  
“Oh shit,” Stiles says. He laughs once, and the wolf barks out a sound that doesn’t sound anything like a dog. That shuts Stiles right up. He’s never been a dog person. Not like Scott and the long line of foster dogs he talked his mom into keeping for weeks at a time once he started working at the vet’s place. When dogs are huge and excited, they look pretty toothy and senseless and Stiles really, really prefers reasoning with people willing to listen to concepts more cerebral than _sit_ and _stay_.  
  
“Down, boy!” Stiles yells.  
  
The wolf sits and cocks his head.  
  
The wolf is totally giving him attitude.  
  
Attitude is better than implied intent to chew, so Stiles carefully slides to the ground. He’s fairly confident he won’t be mauled to death. Part of him knows it’s Derek, and all of him knows not to acknowledge that it’s Derek. There are certain things, like seeing your local cranky, undefinable acquaintance's dog balls, that you just don’t talk about out loud.  
  
When Stiles’ feet touch the dirt, his legs shake so bad he feels like a rattle. The barking and teeth must have had an unforeseen effect on Stiles’ ability to stand. He tries to cover by sinking to a wobbly crouch and leaning into the front tire, but the wolf is perceptive and wears his concern openly, in the form of a high whine and a shuffling, ducked-head approach.  
  
“Dude, it’s fine,” Stiles says, offering his palm. “I’ve just had this like, overactive freak out reflex lately. And your bark is like Satan’s car alarm.”  
  
The wolf noses his palm. It’s a weird texture—cold-warm-wet and very soft. Then the wolf is _licking_ him. Okay.  
  
“This is really gross,” Stiles says, smiling. The wolf directs his sniffy nose to Stiles’ face and _crotch_ and Stiles reels back, loses his balance, and sits heavily. He isn’t scared anymore. Not at all. Instead he feels kind of stupid and happy. The wolf’s muzzle thuds moistly at Stiles’ throat. This is ridiculous and, “Oh my god, that tickles.”  
  
Stiles reaches out with the tickle-reflex and gets two hands full of fur.  
  
Derek’s fur is thick and soft.  
  
The wolf, Stiles reminds himself. The wolf’s fur is thick and soft. The wolf sits, tucked between Stiles’ legs. He radiates heat and pants softly and places his heavy, strong head against Stiles’ shoulder.  
  
Stiles pets him for a long time. Just cards his fingers through the silky-thick fur that smells earthy and warm and surprisingly good. His mind wanders, like a defragmenting hard drive, briefly skimming over some buried memory of an article about—or maybe he was there—pets used as therapy in hospitals, for people who are sick or sad or just really tired. He snorts to himself, and the wolf lifts his head, and his freaking ears perk up, and Stiles laughs.  
  
If Derek’s tail wags just a little, neither of them will ever tell.  
  
“I was thinking about coming out here more,” Stiles says, as he scratches behind the wolf’s big, velvety ears. “You know, getting fresh air.”  
  
The wolf opens his mouth, really wide, and clamps down on Stiles’ bicep. It’s not a bite, but it’s pretty firm, and it comes with a low, unhappy growl.  
  
“Well I know, it isn’t the brightest idea, but check it out. I was thinking if I’m not by myself I won’t be _as_ likely to get eaten by the alpha. Or pack of alphas. Whatever. Not that I need a guard dog, because Chris—”  
  
The wolf’s jaw clamps a little harder. It’s not quite bruise territory, but it’s getting close.  
  
“Argent got me one of those handy taser guns I’m definitely not supposed to know how to use. But hey, the deputy who showed me how was eviscerated by Jackson so no harm no foul.”  
  
The wolf watches him.  
  
“What I’m saying is, I can take care of myself,” Stiles says. When the wolf remains silent, his bite gentle and unrelenting, Stiles goes on quietly,“But if like, you know, some crazy stray wants to hang, I could hang.”  
  
The wolf releases his arm and darts in for a lick. Right across Stiles’ face. It’s wet and a little slimy but it’s also a hot shock of _affection_ , and maybe this is why Lassie and Old Yeller and all those boy and dog stories are so popular. Huh.  
  
Stiles hugs the wolf, his cheek against the silky warmth of his fur, and doesn’t let go for a long time.  


**Author's Note:**

> If you haven't read [The Domestication of Canis Lupus](http://archiveofourown.org/works/485744), check it out because it's ADORABLE. If you like Derek-as-a-wolf, it's highly recommended.


End file.
